I washed my glasses in the sink, fed the cats, cleaned the litter box, and headed back to my room to see what other damage had been done overnight. Because I can hear Bear puking in my sleep, and I always know when it’s happening, but frankly, she’s such a watery, unconvincing puker that I don’t bother to wake up and deal with it. And yes, I heard her coughing one up last night, but I did not realize that it was so very close to my HEAD. At least I wasn’t dreaming she was dying, which is what usually happens when I hear her puking.

Anyway, back on my (not very big) nightstand, I found a PUDDLE. Of VOMIT. And in the middle of that puddle was my air conditioner remote control. It was soaking wet, and the little screen that shows me the temperature was blank. I picked the slimy thing up, took it apart, dried all of its bits and pieces, put the batteries back in… no dice. I am officially the owner of a small electronic device that got shorted out by cat puke. Yes, I will go in search of more AAA batteries and see if I can’t breathe new life into my precious remote (because ewwww getting out of bed to adjust the AC is like getting off the couch to change the channel), but for now, blank screen, cat puke smell.

I suppose I should thank Bear for not hitting any of the books on my nightstand (because I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t clean quite as easily as my glasses did, and who doesn’t want their bedside reeking of cat puke-laced mildewed paperbacks?) or puking into the crack that leads to the cabinet below the top of the nightstand. I am also repeatedly high-fiving myself for having my phone charging on the corner of my bed–an air conditioner-based precaution that ensures that I hear (and feel) my alarm over the cooling but deafening roar of the Frigidaire–because y’all know those Apple store employees would not be nice about cat puke damage to the iPhone.

Many Lysol wipes later, my nightstand is restored to its former glory, and my AC remote is just patiently awaiting new batteries and/or the trash can.

I hope that in some way this sticky little incident has been a tiny step in preparing me for the eventuality of offspring, which I hear do a lot of puking (and other things!) on one’s cherished belongings and person. I say bring it on, future progeny! I have Lysol wipes and a sense of humor, and I might just put you on the floor to let the cats lick you clean. Until then, I will be thankful that I’m only cleaning up after the felines, and that thanks to Bear’s impeccable aim, I still have a healthy stash of puke-free prophylactics.

Now I am 27, and so I will…

• Stop saying “no worries” where it does not apply. Say “you’re welcome.” “No worries” makes me sound like a moron.
• Use the days: Wake up on time, wake up earlier on weekends, don’t waste so much time.
• Break the gmail-facebook-twitter-tumblr procrastination cycle when nothing is going on and do something like clean a drawer, Furminate the cats, put away dishes, read, or just go to bed on time.
• Never watch anything on E! except The Soup.
• “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”
• Only date grownups.
• Minimize the shit-talking. A little.
• Sit and stand up straight. Posture posture posture!
• Not buy things I don’t need that aren’t Taylor Swift songs.
• Figure out where to do what on the Internet.

Those seem like pretty good ideas.

Kathleen: also — junior scrabble cheez-its are extremely satisfying and addictive

me: OOOO

Kathleen: http://www.cheez-it.com/cgi-bin/brandpages/product.pl?company=145&product=16253

only stocked at select publix stores! at least in my experience…

me: oh man

so what makes them junior?

Kathleen: no idea

i think it’s junior scrabble cheezits

not junior cheezits with scrabble

presumably it’s junior because it encourages one to play with one’s food

me: but why is it not regular scrabble cheezits

ah

Kathleen: because why would old people buy alphabet crackers? ;)

me: i dislike that cheezit thinks i don’t want to spell with my food.

obviously i want to spell with my food

Kathleen: me too

me: i’m glad we established that

we ought to write them a letter

Kathleen: indeed. don’t belittle me with your Junior labels

me: seriously

Also: I have started reading Twilight.

me:  i think i very much know how edward feels re: bella
SB:  lol
me:  because it is how i feel re: papa john’s cheesey bread
SB:  oh wow
that was poetic
me:  it just came to me
when i opened the cold box of leftovers
and couldn’t stop myself
SB:  except
he will kill bella
and cheesy bread will kill you

TOUCHE.

Me!? I’m scared of everything! I’m scared of what I saw, I’m scared of what I did, of who I am. And most of all, I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling, the rest of my whole life, the way I feel when I’m with you.

Dance with me.

Yes, hello, I am coming out of my long, dark silence to tell you that in remembrance of Patrick Swayze, you should go watch Dirty Dancing.

Y’all. I love Dirty Dancing. So much. It’s so important. Because for all the nice Jewish little sisters born between about 1975 and 1990, Johnny Castle was much more than just a hard-scrabble dance teacher who didn’t want to join the house painters union and only wore one pair of black dress pants over the course of the entire summer of 1963, when everyone called Frances Houseman “Baby,” and it didn’t occur to her to mind.

Johnny Castle was a revelation for the Jewish little sisters of the 1980s, a choice cut of 100% traif with great hair who could dance–on the floor, on a log, in the water–and who thought Baby’s big hair, big nose, and generally grating, overly idealistic verbal diarrhea were somehow sexy. So when, after that busy week of learning the mambo to perform it at the Sheldrake so Penny could get her backwoods abortion, Baby squeaked the above plea to Johnny in his charmingly rustic Kellerman’s cabin and Johnny turned Baby into a Woman, the sexytime hopes and dreams of all the Jewish little sisters of the 1980s came true. It might have taken some of us another 10 years to put it all together, but Dirty Dancing shows us: As long as we can dance, or do whatever that thing is that lights us up, we can have big hair and big noses and go on annoying diatribes about human nature, and holy shit, someone will love us, because we are smart little bitches who can light up a room–we just might not know how yet. So if we don’t have the balls to do it ourselves (and hey, sometimes we don’t), Johnny Castle, who believes in us, will come get us out of the corner.

So go home and watch Dirty Dancing tonight, since I’m sure it’ll be on TV, and imagine you are a super awkward Jewish little sister of the 1980s (if you aren’t already one by birth), and see how great it makes you feel.

Oh, and then download the soundtrack and try to walk down the street listening to “Do You Love Me,” “Love Man,” and “Cry to Me” without dancing. Because it is impossible.

[image via here]

First of all, if you don’t know what Twitter is, just read this.

Now. There is this other fun thing about Twitter, which is “favoriting” a Tweet. And if you have your nerdy self registered up at Favrd, you get to see which other members of the Twitterati (AKA other registered Favrd twitterers, and don’t worry, I’m already hating myself for making that one up, if I did) have favored your tweets.

So. I get Favrd about once a day by exactly one fellow twitterer out of the 115 or so that follow me presently (I am the smallest of small potatoes).  Here, interestingly and in chronological order and with but two omissions to protect the innocent, are the only tweets I’ve ever twooted that have been favored by MORE than one person (aka 2):

• Rock of Love Bus. I feel so bad for the ones with their own boobs. All two of them.
• Welcome back, Post-Nasal Drip, did you have a nice vacation? You & Pounding Headache can have your old rooms back. Then go fuck yourselves.
• uh, was not kidding about that burrito. it just DEMANDED i nap. i was folding laundry, & it said NO & threw me on the bed. 2 groggy hrs ago.
• in other news, i just buried my hand in the fat folds of my cat to warm it (my hand, not my cat) #notaeuphemism
• boss just asked if i have an NYC allergist. “i don’t HAVE any motherfuckin’ allergies!!!!” i replied. i should lay off the afternoon coffee.
• dear banana republic: i ride the subway. ergo, i will never, not ever, not ever ever, buy white jeans. SO PLEASE STOP. love, abby
• possibly the best spam subject line ever: “Meat Wanna Feel like you’re in Vegas? Banana.”
• y’all know i’m just trying to get through the day so i can go home and play donkey kong, right?

Hasn’t this been fun? I think so.

~~~

Meanwhile, as a very important and wholly unrelated footnote, please hug your friends and loved ones regularly and tell them how much you love them.

I got a little wrapped up in the election. It kind of ate my life. Some of you know how I felt–lying awake at night, worrying about having to move to Rio if your fellow electorate ate the mushy pudding and decided that it is better to be lied to and coddled than solve 21st century issues with 21st century solutions and be treated like grown ups.  Fortunately, enough of us decided to wear our big girl/boy pants, reject being pacified and fear-baited, and, you know, try something new.

So what do I lie awake at night thinking about now? Well. My cat still poops on the floor, so there’s that. Like most people, I’m broke, so there’s that. I have never been very good at keeping a tidy living space, but not having one drives me bonkers, so there’s that. But generally speaking, life is good.

So to borrow a page from Miss Branch, whose delightful and uplifting blog has floated into my Google Reader,  I’ve decided that here, on the brink of Thanksgiving, I should do some gratitudes. Some of them are New York gratitudes, some of them are boring, generic gratitudes, but generally speaking, I think you should know how much I love:

• facebook. (Hey, do not say I didn’t warn you about boring, generic). I am a sucker for keeping in touch and for sharing joys and dramas (see: blog). I think I can safely say, four and a half years into my facebook membership (yikes), that it is one of the things that keeps me sane. I can reach out and touch my friends. They can do the same for me. It’s weird and interblaggy and fake, but it’s great when you need to see all of your people, the ones you contact and care for in real life, too, in one place.  And it turns into something real for the rest of your “friends” when you run into one of them on the street who you maybe haven’t spoken to in a decade.  facebook makes it absolutely acceptable to say, “I saw that you’re engaged, congratulations!” or “by the way, I loved your halloween costume, those pictures were so funny!” because your facebook friendship is a two-way tube–you get to stalk, and so do your friends, and you both have the task of making it not awkward.  I love it.

• Asian people who speak Spanish.  A universal truth of New York restaurants.  I love love love it when Asian people speak Spanish.

• Tights. Specifically these tights, which are reversible, which makes them a) just the tiny tiniest bit warmer than normal tights and b) just the tiny tiniest bit sturdier than other tights. Which is to say, I had a pair for three years that I just finally gave up last month. Look into tights!

• This Beyonce Video. It is among the more amazing things I have seen in a long time. Some of my coworkers and I are a little too enthusiastically committed to learning the dance. It reminds me of the olden days when we had to learn hot moves from VHS tapes of live performances and/or MTV. Oh the YouTubes, what joys you have brought us.

• My Hilarious Roommates.
• Air popped popcorn. If you only eat popcorn from movie theaters and microwaves, I dare say you have not lived. I recommend this popper, some butter-flavored PAM (I know), a dash of salt and some shakes of good old Kraft parmesan cheese. And that concludes this installment of GOOP for Non-Millionaires.

• Oh, this guy. Old news. But I’m about to lose him to the West Coast for a few months so he can be a badass with these folks. So, you know, it’s worth reiterating. Also he lives in Manhattan now in a very cute (also very little) apartment, so that is also very exciting.

• The Target in Brooklyn. I spent an hour and a half there a few weekends ago and only spent about $11, all on things I could have bought elsewhere, but I just like being there.

So. Those are my gratitudes today and always.  Work is an end-of-year shitstorm of paperwork, proposals, events and other general money-raising chaos, so I’m glad I have these happies.  If I don’t check in before then (har har har), Happy Thanksgiving to all and to all a good turkey/tofurkey/turducken/whatever!

BARTLET [to Obama]: GET ANGRIER! Call them liars, because that’s what they are. Sarah Palin didn’t say “thanks but no thanks” to the Bridge to Nowhere. She just said “Thanks.” You were raised by a single mother on food stamps — where does a guy with eight houses who was legacied into Annapolis get off calling you an elitist? And by the way, if you do nothing else, take that word back. Elite is a good word, it means well above average. I’d ask them what their problem is with excellence. While you’re at it, I want the word “patriot” back. McCain can say that the transcendent issue of our time is the spread of Islamic fanaticism or he can choose a running mate who doesn’t know the Bush doctrine from the Monroe Doctrine, but he can’t do both at the same time and call it patriotic. They have to lie — the truth isn’t their friend right now. Get angry. Mock them mercilessly; they’ve earned it. McCain decried agents of intolerance, then chose a running mate who had to ask if she was allowed to ban books from a public library. It’s not bad enough she thinks the planet Earth was created in six days 6,000 years ago complete with a man, a woman and a talking snake, she wants schools to teach the rest of our kids to deny geology, anthropology, archaeology and common sense too? It’s not bad enough she’s forcing her own daughter into a loveless marriage to a teenage hood, she wants the rest of us to guide our daughters in that direction too? It’s not enough that a woman shouldn’t have the right to choose, it should be the law of the land that she has to carry and deliver her rapist’s baby too? I don’t know whether or not Governor Palin has the tenacity of a pit bull, but I know for sure she’s got the qualifications of one. And you’re worried about seeming angry? You could eat their lunch, make them cry and tell their mamas about it and God himself would call it restrained. There are times when you are simply required to be impolite. There are times when condescension is called for!

But let’s put it this way. I have an ideal seat to the fine fine show at my own workplace tomorrow night, where we are presenting a musical I have loved as long as hard as I’ve loved Hair, and I just semi-accidentally put myself in the Public’s “virtual line” for Hair seats tomorrow night.

Also it has taken me like half an hour to type this because I can’t organize my thoughts yet.

Okay. I’m shutting up now. Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it.

Oh wait, I am addressing myself.

See, that’s the kind of strange thing that happens when you decide it’s a good idea to spend three days in Las Vegas and then fly back on the red-eye at the equivalent of 2 AM Eastern time and then go to work that same day.  Attributes that make this state of being even more interesting: residual effects of 1.5 Tylenol PM ingested at 2 AM Eastern time; unwashed hair; unshakable symptoms of last week’s stomach bug every few hours.  In other words, I am in a very awake, fresh, comfortable state right now, the kind of state that is conducive to mouth-breathing, gut-staring reflections.

Glubble, sayeth my lower intestine.

Anyway.  The Hunk of Man, some other friends and I went to Las Vegas this weekend, where we slept in a dilapidated pyramid that featured leaky ceilings and uncomfortable delusions of grandeur.  We were within spitting distance of cartoon castle, a comically misplaced “beach” resort, and a teeny tiny replica of our own fair city.  There were families from around the world in town for the holiday weekend, shuttling their children to shows and arcades and the M&M’s and Krispy Kreme joints while dodging the giant billboards for half-naked vampire women and scary washboard abs of the Australian “Thunder” boys.  Drinks were consumed out of 2-feet tall plastic beakers.  Money was lost and won over green felt tables and at the push of a button.  There were lots and lots of sound effects.

And in the end, my original summary of Vegas, made as a bored 17-year-old relegated to standing behind a certain line in the carpet, more than an arm’s length from anything on which one can bet as my parents and brother (then 19 and equipped with this guy’s expired passport and a baseball hat) played and played, still holds true: Las Vegas = Hell + Disney World, nothing more, nothing less.  There are castles, rides and a souvenir shop at every corner.  When you’re done smiling, you can feed one of many addictions: sex, gambling, drinking, famewhoring.  You can do it up right–stay somewhere luxurious, see the best shows (clothed or otherwise), come out ahead cash-wise–but it’s still Vegas.  It’s still seedy and oily and pointlessly located in the middle of nowhere, an isolating anti-oasis of “fun and games” that only thinly veil its status as a conduit of Western culture’s egregiously mislaid priorities.  Mass production, mass consumption, mass market, mass everything–nothing accomplished in Vegas is done so on a scale less than MASS, and the result when you’re there is a feeling of dehumanization in an impersonal smoke-and-silicone city.  The lasting effect is one of outdated, unfashionable opulence, a gratuitousness that seems downright insulting given the water, energy, hunger, you-name-it crises going on around the world and in our own country.

I’ll be the first to admit that my living practices are anything but green, practical, frugal, thoughtful, mindful, respectful, purposeful, or executed on a regular basis with any thoughts of those in need of water, energy, food, you-name-it around the world and in our own country.  I’ll also be the first to admit that yeah, I had fun in Vegas, but that had more to do with being with friends and being silly and seeing Love than avoiding the realities of my daily non-Vegas life.  And I don’t disagree that everybody needs an outlet, an escape, to keep from going insane.  I just don’t find Las Vegas a very productive one, and its scale and ongoing growth trajectory signal to me (with no scientific backup or anything, of course) an abundance of misdirected human energy, not a dearth of morality or anything.  Sin will be sin whether it stays in Vegas or not–but why so many billions of dollars go into making that quantity of shiny sin possible for millions of visitors each year is somewhat beyond me.

For goodness sake, you have to fly over the Grand Canyon to get there.  That’s at least more breathtaking than Carrot Top and Louie Anderson, right?

 ~~~

Anyway, we all survived (as far as I know, since Brian is still en route to NYC), as I’d imagine a huge percentage of Vegas visitors do.  JC and I had a mushy airport farewell as he headed off to do this for a few months.  My overgifting tendencies flourished in the desert heat, and I was damn near unstoppable, but he dealt with it well, because he is pretty super.  And, for blogging purposes, let’s get excited: I’m going to Los Angeles next month to visit him.  I will set foot on California soil for the first time ever.  Something tells me I might have a few things to say about it.  You know, just one or two.